On 13 November, I gave a talk at the Centre for Family and Population Research at NUS, drawing on interviews with parents in Singapore.
The challenges of combining wage work and care responsibilities have been documented in various societal contexts. National variations reveal that public policy and care infrastructure have major effects in shaping gendered patterns in who does what in households, fertility decisions, as well as overall wellbeing of parents. An area of social life and public policy that has not been integrated into this body of work has been that of education. While schools are accounted for as spaces that allow parents to be at work, inadequate attention has been paid to how education systems shape the parameters for parenting and therefore how they affect work and care experiences. In this paper, I draw on interviews with parents in Singapore to illustrate how the education system’s demands are a major component of contemporary care labor. Attending to policy effects in the area of education and integrating it into discussions of work-life balance will pave way for a more complete picture of the challenges parents face.
I think if poverty was not seen as inevitable in 1960s Singapore, with all our plans and dreams of development, certainly we should not see it as inevitable today. And if we think of IDEP as an international goal, shared by humanity in all its different contexts, we are in a very good position to make more headway on this as a small and wealthy country.
Neither extreme wealth nor extreme poverty are natural phenomena. We know from looking at trends around the world that much of it has to do with laws and policies. Poverty and inequality come about through specific decisions about our societies: what we reward and what we punish, who gets to make decisions on behalf of the collective, and so on.
Many of us interested in gender come to it with a sense of personal investment—a personal cost in inequality and therefore a personal stake in gender equality. But this is not, and does not have to be, everyone’s experience. I have found, from teaching the sociology of gender over the past decade, that many young people come to my course without a strong sense that this has anything to do with them and leave seeing all the ways in which it does. Whatever your journey, I hope this list and the above questions enrich your knowledge and empower you to partake in the ongoing public conversations about the state of gender (in)equality in Singapore today.
If I don’t write, I don’t know what I think. But if there is no shape to my thinking, no shadow of a thread or arc, I cannot write. For the past few months, this is where I’ve been. Thoughts fly about in my head all day long but there’s not a single wire on which to land. It’s like the freezer’s malfunctioned and the water won’t freeze; worse, there’s no cup or bowl or any kind of receptacle in sight and it’s just puddle. I’m all water but feel no zen.
It is July 2020, Singapore, four months since the pandemic has altered daily routines and shrunk mobility. Every book I have read in this time, I have viewed from within what feels like a tunnel. It is a strange place—infused with anticipation and anxiety about the future, interrupted often by the random onset of memories of the past, and buzzing with the sounds, smells, sights, and feel of immediate, material life. Time and space have a dual and surreal quality—ephemeral and conceptual, yet persistent and corporeal. This tunnel demands my attention in a way I have not experienced in a while—I remember friendships I did not know I had forgotten; recall mundane and unphotogenic moments in vacations that had gone without remark; am curious about gaps in my memory of places where I hung out as a teenager. And then, yanked back to the here and now, I notice the way sunlight dances into my study through the blinds, and find fault with chipped paint, unruly ferns, domestic messiness, all of which must have been here before. Reading Mrs Irene Lim’s memoir, 90 Years in Singapore, from this place, I am therefore first struck by her attentiveness, an attentiveness I am rediscovering.
The capacity to plan for the future is not simply an individual skill. Frequently we present it that way—in advice to students, or workshops for the low-income—implying that with a plan, life would be organized, stable, sustainable, and therefore good.
Pandemic life has thrown into sharp relief what was true all along: for any person, the strength of a plan depends on the conditions in which the plan lives. My annual schedule for 2020—a book chapter in February, a talk in March, an article by June, a mid-year trip to visit a BFF, conferences in July and November, field work all year—all this has gone out the window. But what is astonishing, what has always been exceptional, has never been my planning skills, but the stability and predictability of the life of a relatively well-off person in a relatively wealthy country in times of relative peace.
In the past four months, as I stewed in the discomfort of repeatedly cancelling and remaking plans, I have been reminded that the conditions I have taken for granted for years—conditions of predictability, stability, and excess—are in reality unusual, never universally accessible. Now more than ever, the different conditions of individual lives put distance between those who have and those who do not.
In a crisis that has such corporeal dimensions, and which so obviously requires urgent and material responses beyond what my pen can do, I feel intermittent waves of uselessness and despair. What is the purpose of scholarly labor? This is not a new feeling. I know of many others who struggle with being scholars in disciplinary traditions steeped in values of equality and social justice, but making careers in organizational and/or national contexts where this ethos is marginal rather than institutionalized.
Without mitigation strategies on a collective and large scale, the fallout of the COVID-19 crisis will be deeply devastating as well as profoundly unequal. Scholars in the arts, humanities, and social sciences can interrogate this problem, in order to articulate perspectives which would otherwise not be seen or heard, recognized or legitimized. Proposing analyses, tabling theoretical insights, offering vocabularies and mental frameworks–scholars in various disciplines work at different levels of abstraction, some more obviously problems-oriented and ‘applied’, others more ‘upstream’ and abstract. Taken as a whole, this knowledge diversifies and deepens the range of solutions that are conceivable; it expands the range of interests that must be represented. More than ever, scholars can and must contribute to public discourse about what comes after. With or without institutional support, we need more urgently to pursue scholarship that is attuned to society’s needs. Our scholarship ought to put us in solidarity with, rather than apart from, the society in which we are embedded.
Research can highlight necessary questions, analyses, and solutions. This is useful work but only if we do it—consciously, doggedly, collectively, and if necessary against the tide of approval and reward we habitually seek.
Children’s and adults’ lives and wellbeing are intertwined. With social structures receding and the private sphere literally holding everyone in, the inequalities that we know exist will become more palpable and consequential than ever. This is the feminist sociologist’s nightmare—the work of social reproduction now resting entirely in the household and weighing on certain members within them. The many hands holding the fort together—teachers, bus drivers, canteen operators, tutors, grandparent caregivers, day or afterschool care staff—now stand parted, fingers pried open, a delicate and precious circuit broken.
The unfolding story of COVID-19 is a story of inequalities, long experienced by those who bear its brunt, coming to the surface of our collective consciousness. In the weeks to come, who will care for children? What inequalities will be especially consequential when ‘work from home’ and ‘home-based learning’ kick in? Without institutions and services providing supporting roles and to some extent mitigating gender and class inequalities, parents and children will find their gendered roles and class positions mattering more than ever in shaping their wellbeing, both now and, for some, also in the longer term.
While the crisis is unfolding, it is premature to predict its long-term consequences, and the specifics of how various social groups–separated by income and wealth, age, or household type–will be differently affected. But reflecting on specific components of this definition now can still shed light on the profound impact of this public health crisis on various members of our society.
Together with Ng Kok Hoe (with whom I am collaborating on Minimum Income Standards research), I have written a piece on the coronavirus crisis for Academia.sg. (I am also an editor of Academia.sg, a website maintained by a group of Singaporean academics to promote Singapore studies and to encourage critical debate about the state of intellectual life in Singapore.)
Can we do more? A rationalisation sometimes kicks in: In times of prosperity, people do not need help; in times of need, there are insufficient means to help. This mindset encourages inertia and delays change. The problems that poorer households faced in normal times have not been suspended because of the crisis. All the things that should have been done to help them then, now must be done.
The current crisis illuminates. It shows us where we most need to intervene to strengthen our social policies: Improving wage protection across all low-paying jobs, shoring up job security in new sectors of the economy, strengthening alternative retirement income sources, enhancing the social assistance regime, and extending the provision of public goods like care services.
Pressing ahead with necessary structural reforms will put individuals in a better position to build up buffers against future shocks and reduce the resources required for drastic crisis measures. It will also dampen the disproportionate economic impact on more vulnerable people next time.
Seeing/reading and thinking about other people’s work is often generative and inspiring.
In recent weeks:
I got around to watching Bong Joon-ho’s award-winning film Parasite. Many people had told me I had to see it. The film is indeed, as everyone promised, amazing. Thanks to an invitation from Arts Equator, I had the opportunity to reflect on the film in this review. This is one of those films that stays under your skin for a while. If you haven’t already seen it, do.
Finally, I had the good fortune to preview Cherian George’s Air-Conditioned Nation Revisited (2020). It is the 20th anniversary of his groundbreaking book, Air-Conditioned Nation (2000), and this forthcoming book of essays draws from that as well as his more recent Singapore, Incomplete (2017) and a number of new essays. These are my thoughts on the forthcoming Air-Conditioned Nation Revisited:
Cherian George is one of Singapore’s most astute political observers and social commentators. This collection of essays, drawing on events that traverse the last few decades, takes us through intriguing encounters and noteworthy moments in Singapore’s recent past. From political dissidents to governing elites, newspaper editors to bloggers, the presidential election to Hong Lim Park, Professor George reminds us of incidents and people too quickly forgotten or under-interpreted. Each matters because they clear up some puzzle as to how we got here. Even better, they invite us to reconsider: where is ‘here?’ Infused with Cherian’s wit, humor, audacity, and above all with his steadfast idealism and generosity, this is that rare book on politics that encourages clear-headedness and yet holds cynicism at bay. Read it, share it, read it again: this book will spark feelings, stir thoughts, create conversations, engage our muscles for debate and disagreement—all things we deserve as humans living in society.
The book ships on March 13, and you can pre-order a copy here.
Last November I sat down with New Naratif’s Chief Editor, journalist Kirsten Han, in a session organised by Ethos Books to talk about journalism, inequality, precarity, research, writing and more. The recorded conversation is now available for listening on the New Naratif website.
I wrote this some time back. Seems timely now to air it.
What does it mean to “speak out of turn”? It is to speak when one is not supposed to, or towards a person or persons one is not
supposed to speak to, or about
something one is not supposed to speak on. To be seen as or accused of speaking
out of turn is to be reminded one has no right to speak. It is to have one’s views
be cast as illegitimate because of who
one is. It is a kind of illegitimacy that has less to do with the content of
the speech and more with the position of the speaker relative to that of other
speakers in a field.
As a weapon, how does it work? Not everyone can cast this aspersion.
It has to come from a place of actual power. Once cast, a signal is sent that
it is free for all. There is a pile-up, compounding the thing, and attacks get
increasingly personal and vicious.
Speaking out of turn—the existence of such a phenomenon—should alert
us to this: discourse exists within a field
of power. The world of discoursing—of opinions and ideas and truth-claims
moving and traveling and coming into conflict or meeting resonance—is not flat.
Not everyone gets to make truth claims; not everyone gets to accuse others of
speaking out of turn; few get to never experience being accused of speaking out
Because it is not really about substantive content, we see attacks on persons—sometimes as individuals, other times as groups. The marginalization of social groups—sometimes along lines of gender, class, ethnicity, or sexuality—is partly about marginalization in discursive space. Marginality means bearing greater risks of being accused of representing narrow interests, violating larger interests, when speaking. Marginal social groups never get to claim their views as neutral, universal views.
Once there are aspersions cast on someone or group, some whiff that
they are speaking out of turn, substantive arguments become less relevant. If
one insists on following ideas, tracing debate, weighing evidence, one is bound
to be frustrated, confused, perplexed. It works for a while, but then suddenly,
it is all shade—thrown at the speaker (speaking out of turn). You’re crazy. You’re
disrespectful. You’re unpatriotic. You have vested interests. You’re not
qualified. You, you, you. One can try to ask questions about context or attempt
to bring things back to regular “conversation”—what is the historical backdrop
of the issue at hand? What are the different sides? What are the points of
agreement, the baselines? What are the places of conflict? What were we talking
about to begin with? Those questions make sense for a while, but then, BOOM,
shade thrown on the person—how dare you speak out of turn, not following the
rules—and all hell breaks loose again.
When one knows there is risk in speaking, one learns to turn down
the volume, think strategically about when and where and how to speak. It is
labor, laborious, and over time it erodes the self, clips the tongue, blunts
Why should we care, if we’re not the ones being accused of speaking
out of turn?
For this, we have to go back to our original conceit, our aspirations for our society, our dreams that we refuse to get away from: “democratic,” “inclusive,” “harmonious,” “justice,” “equality.”
All of these ideals point to the centrality of rights to voice. A democratic society is one where
people have rights—substantive, and not just as formality—to have thoughts and
express them. A harmonious society requires safe spaces for diverse persons to
speak so that we can figure out how to live together. In an unjust world, and
that is the world in which we live, we have to make conscious and concerted
efforts to ensure the terrain of debate is open, is fair, is safe, so that
inequalities and injustice can be redressed. Drawing false
equivalence—pretending that ideas are neutral and that each one is already valued
equally as every other one—prevents the creation of space for addressing
inequalities. For all the ideals to come to fruition, the safety of a
discursive space for everyone, not just those high in the social hierarchy, is
a key condition. There is no public debate without public space, no new ideas
can be generated that help us live better together, if only some voices can
speak. Over time, as people stop ourselves before we have spoken, our muffled
thought and ringing silences constitute the public arena.
That “speaking out of turn” is a thing we can observe in
contemporary Singapore, that contentious issues quickly devolve into the
territory of singling out persons—naming of names and use of derogatory labels—tells
us that we are lacking in this substantive right to voice. This is disturbing.
We must watch how leaders do or do not single people out for speaking out of turn. We should see how they do or do not level the playing field for public discourse. We should look at how they do or do not step up to protect the Singaporeans they do not agree with, do not approve of, are ideologically opposed to. And then after we’re done glancing up, we should look to ourselves, and persist, recognizing that in a democratic society—the one we want to live in some day—there should be no such thing as speaking out of turn. Justice, equality, inclusion, harmony—these are just words, mere rhetoric, until there is a field on which these principles can live.